


Addendum

by Piyo13



Series: Checkmate [2]
Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: M/M, canonverse but with alterations, does contain manga spoilers, sequel to Checkmate
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-19
Updated: 2014-03-19
Packaged: 2018-01-16 08:37:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1339015
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Piyo13/pseuds/Piyo13
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><b>ad·den·dum</b> əˈdendəm <i>noun</i><br/>1. an item of additional material, typically omissions, added at the end of a book or other publication.</p><p>Sequel to Checkmate</p>
            </blockquote>





	Addendum

**Author's Note:**

> **_Notes on the alterations to canon: this is assumed in the future, where Eren can still control titans, but there's no way for titans to become human again._ **
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> My thanks, once again, to [Kenji](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Kenjiandco/pseuds/Kenjiandco) for beta-reading ~~and putting up with all my ridiculous sentence-butchering and passive language.~~
> 
> Okay, soundtrack for this: Balmorhea's [The Winter](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=l9cVN4ZqNIM) again, but the second half is Clint Mansell's [Requiem for a Dream.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=i5Kwf_nNmGI)

They still play chess with their fingers interlocked. It’s less out of necessity and more out of comfort, now; their soft, alpha-numerical murmurs work to soothe each other, to pare down the sharp edges of stress that accumulate in both their minds throughout the course of the day (such is one’s lot as leader of the largest army humanity has ever amassed, and doubly so when said army pushes the confines of titan territory on a daily basis). The quiet lamplight flickers once, the motion rippling waves of light across Armin’s golden hair, and Erwin finds himself distracted enough by the person in front of him ( _his_ person) that he loses a rook. He can’t quite bring himself to care, though, as Armin’s lips quirk upward and Erwin lets his control go, leaning forward to place his lips on Armin’s (he’s met halfway; neither of them had been too concentrated on the game, then, the gleam of whose wooden pieces cannot- and never will- compare to the gleam of Armin’s eyes as they rest their foreheads together, content to simply let their breaths intermingle).

“Tomorrow,” Armin says, a statement and a question and a worry, all neatly bundled into eight succinct letters (and even after five years, Erwin is still struck by the sheer elegant simplicity that is Armin), a query seeking reassurance that Erwin is all too happy to provide.

“The plan holds,” Erwin replies. And it does, it will; it has to. The lives of thousands depend upon their intricate interlacing of thought and action- these lives, while given freely, are also the heaviest burden to bear, even when the weight is split (however reluctantly) across two pairs of shoulders. It’s a toll Erwin has borne gladly throughout the years, the chant of _for humanity_ ringing solemnly in his ears with every strike to the coffin nails, every chink of graveyard stone converted to marker of the deceased (some days he wonders if he’s the only one to hear those echoes, or if ghosts whisper stories to Armin’s ears as well; in the end he never asks, because Armin fights for the same cause as he, and even if that weren’t the case, he trusts Armin with his life as he has no human being before and that’s more than enough for him).

Armin sighs, a quiet whisper of air across Erwin’s lips (his breath smells, but then so does Erwin’s- dinner was a bit heavy on the garlic tonight, and the distinctive aftertaste is still settled fully on tongue, and then the beer consumed afterwards tinges everything with the borderline acridity of alcohol). Erwin tilts his face forward, until their noses meet, and Armin giggles for a moment: pure, free, unweighted by ever-mounting survivor’s guilt- before pulling his forehead away, sitting back and carefully, gently returning the chess pieces to their proper homes.

Once the pieces are all returned to their proper resting place, Armin follows suit, shedding his clothes crawling into the bed he shares with Erwin (they’ve long since stopped pretending they want anything different; stopped pretending that the warmth they share with each other isn’t as precious as the words and the thoughts and the games), patting the blankets nearby in a manner that conveys exactly what he wants. Erwin complies, his clothes hitting the floor and taking it as their final resting place as he clambers into the bed, the action made only marginally easier with the passing of time. It’s times like these he longs for his arm back, because any motion he makes is no longer smooth but truncated and it’s trivial, absurdly so, but he wishes he didn’t have to half-hop the way he does.

Erwin hesitates as he draws level with Armin (they’ve known each other five years and still Erwin worries that he won’t be good enough, won’t live up to the expectations Armin has for him; Erwin still worries that Armin won’t want him because he’s nothing but an old cripple mistakenly left in command of an army and Armin could just as easily request full command and be granted it, prodigy that he is) (Erwin’s never had the pleasure of working with someone who is so thoroughly on his level, so completely capable of understanding exactly that which he wishes to convey, and it’s this that worries Erwin, because it’s all too good to be true, really, and he can put on a façade but he knows his acting was only ever good with those who have no idea how the world truly is and Armin’s anything but- but then Armin runs a hand along his cheek, and Erwin’s worries are quieted, tamed, pushed away into the background). A slight pressure from Armin’s hand pulls Erwin closer, until they’re sharing breaths once again, only this time that’s not all they do, their lips meeting and their mouths welcoming each other, quiet warmth reassuring and invigorating and oh, so sweet.

Erwin, as always, thanks every lucky star and charm and wish he’s ever heard of or seen that Armin is his, and his alone- that he’s allowed to run kisses down Armin’s neck and graze the skin with his teeth, that he’s allowed to gently bite down on Armin’s collarbone, that he alone is allowed to create the soft, sensual pants and groans that Armin emits as his mouth roves lower, his tongue meeting a nipple and staying there (Erwin’s come to straddle Armin, and he sits rather heavily, knees sinking into the mattress either side of Armin’s hips; but the position allows him to balance solely on his knees and bring his hand to mirror his tongue’s work). Armin’s back arches as he scoots backwards, trailing his mouth and hand down Armin’s toned chest, ghosting over the imprinted bruises the maneuver gear has left and tenderly touching every scar that gleams lighter in the lamplight than the rest of Armin’s skin.

He moves lower still, soft blond hair tickling his nose as he trails down the rest of Armin’s stomach, one hand gently stroking Armin’s cock, keeping it just far enough out of the way that it doesn’t inhibit him as he places kisses along Armin’s hips (he runs a thumb over the head and it comes away wet, Armin panting heavily now and Erwin feels the light tremors of pleasure vibrating through his body) (Erwin himself is already hard, but another downside of having only one hand is that he has to make the choice between Armin and himself- not that it’s a hard choice, and Erwin’s hand speeds up slightly as his mouth joins it, planting soft kisses along the length of Armin’s cock until he reaches the tip). Erwin licks away precome, his stomach coiling further as Armin squirms and bucks to the point where Erwin has to use his hand to keep Armin’s hips down while he swirls his tongue and sucks.

“Ah, Erwin-!” Erwin smiles as a shudder wracks Armin’s body and his name passes through Armin’s lips over and over, a frantic, panting chant. Armin’s on the verge, Erwin can tell, and he takes that as his cue, taking Armin’s cock deep into his mouth and then farther, until he can feel it brush against the back of his throat. He holds it there, tongue moving as best it can and humming low until he feels Armin stiffen under his fingertips, the smooth muscles of his abdomen tensing in advance of his release (and a wave of pride and want overcomes him- _he_ can bring Armin to this, he _wants_ to, he _does_ and his body reacts in kind). Armin comes in Erwin’s mouth, and Erwin swallows around him, waiting patiently until Armin relaxes back into the bed to lean back and wipe his lips of the remaining come.

Armin is splayed out against the white sheets, his hair forming a sweaty, disheveled halo around his flushed face. His eyes are half-lidded and glazed, focused elsewhere, and Erwin sighs in appreciation. He doesn’t think he’s ever seen anything this beautiful (he doesn’t think anything could compare, either). His hand reaches between his legs, and he groans softly when he finally touches himself, still hard; he has Armin before him, perfect and gorgeous and _his._ His hand begins to pick up speed and he closes his eyes against his will and pants, stroking and squeezing with increasing roughness until a hand on his stops the motion.

“Lay back,” Armin commands him (still sweaty, his hair still sticking up at odd angles, still the most beautiful being in existence), “and let me.” Normally Erwin’s the one to be giving commands, but it’s not an unwelcome change, and it’s only second later that Erwin is sprawled against the pillows, his tongue once more tasting the inside of Armin’s mouth as two spit-slicked hands run over his cock, teasingly and in all the right places. Erwin lets himself go, knowing he’s in capable hands; his moans fill the room and he gives himself over to sensation, aware of every twist of Armin’s fingers and the way his teeth gently exert pressure on the side of his neck as he sucks hard enough to leave a mark (“so everyone will know you’re mine,” Armin whispers in his ear once he’s done. Erwin doesn’t have the coherency for words). Erwin’s vision blots out as he comes, and then it’s his turn to fall limply back, sated and filled with warmth, nuzzling Armin’s shoulder with affection.

A hand on his chest signals him to stay still while Armin brings a cool rag to wipe away the mess. Once they’re cleaned and the lantern’s off, Erwin wraps his arm around Armin’s waist, pulling him in and tucking his nose into Armin’s hair, content to simply bask in his scent (only Armin knows, but Erwin is a cuddler). Armin runs his hands over Erwin’s body; an absent-minded gesture, but one that calms and reassures them both. He yawns, scooting closer into Erwin’s side, and Erwin brings up his arm to compensate, wrapping it tightly around Armin’s shoulders.

“Goodnight, Erwin,” he mumbles. Erwin glances at him fondly, his eyes only half-open in the dark.

“Goodnight, Armin,” Erwin mumbles back, already drifting off.

He sleeps that night, like so many previously, dreaming nightmares tinged the color of blood-drenched gold, of large white teeth painted with Armin’s blood. He wakes that night, like so many previously, sweat chilled on his skin, phantom pain lancing through the remainder of his arm, reaching with his other out to Armin, running flaxen hair through his hand, breathing in his scent, reassuring himself that Armin is still with him. Alive. Several minutes pass before Erwin has his breath back under control, and several more before his heart returns to even, slow thumps and he’s able to cajole himself back into sleep, the sudden disappearance of adrenaline taking with it his nightmares.

Morning comes, and with it hurried formalities and cinched belts, clattering swords and clinking reins. Erwin and Armin take turns going over the battle plan once more, double-checking that all their troops are exactly where they should be. They’re using a two-point formation; Erwin on right point, Armin on left (they’ll be far enough away that verbal communication is out of the question, but close enough that they will always remain within sight of one another- their flare pouches are stocked full nonetheless, just in case) (Erwin doesn’t dwell on what cases those might be). Eren and his squad left several minutes ago, Eren’s voice already sounding loudly over the plains, summoning the few remaining titans and bending them to his call; the main body will follow in his wake, cutting down the straggling titans as they advance (it’s extermination, now, not merely war). Erwin brings his horse up alongside Armin’s, a customary goodbye before they plunge into battle.

They regard each other silently for a few seconds, eyes searching, conveying more than needs to be said, and some that doesn’t (dastardly ‘what if’s that Erwin knows don’t escape Armin’s mind either- they’re seasoned soldiers, realistic and intelligent. They’ve seen enough death to know what possibilities await, and though neither wants to acknowledge it, the acute awareness of their mortality is all too apparent, written in the lines across their faces and the set of their jaws) Erwin’s scared- he never used to be, because lives were replaceable, even his. He used to not be, because worry was all he needed to keep him focused- but now he is _scared_ every time they head out together, now that he’s found the one life that isn’t interchangeable with the rest.

It’s Erwin’s turn to break the silence. “I love you,” he blurts, the words rushed (but laced with emotion, as if saying them could cast a charm against death over Armin, and Erwin wishes such were a possibility). Armin leans out of his saddle, kissing Erwin softly, but no less passionately for that.

“I love you, too,” Armin whispers. “Always.” They exchange one last curt nod, and Armin wheels his horse, cantering over to their starting positions as Erwin scans his soldiers one last time, comparing them to the map he has stored in his mind’s eye, assuring himself as he’d assured Armin last night- the plan _will_ work. It has to. This is humanity’s last offensive, if all goes well (if it doesn’t, it’s just another massacre among the thousands Erwin’s had to witness). Erwin turns to look at Armin, setting his reins on his saddle’s pommel while he raises a hand. Over half a kilometer away, he sees Armin mimic the motion.

Three seconds later, and they’re off. The thunder of hooves is deafening, and Erwin is reminded once more of the weight of the lives he carries on his back. He shrugs the feeling away, loading an orange flare, the signal for the troops to fan out wide (to kill every last titan is their goal, and their formation is still too close for comfort- certain abnormals can disobey Eren’s voice, and they can’t be allowed to pass around the edges). They run for seven minutes before the first titans come into view (and this, they can deal with; these titans are dull and unthinking, mesmerized by Eren’s power, and the formation flows around them even as the soldiers closest fly off their horses to make the kill).

It’s the red streaks on the horizon that first set Erwin’s stomach on edge (they’re from Armin’s side). The red fades to black, and Erwin’s blood runs cold even as he’s standing in the saddle and following the motion of his horse (they’re on _Armin’s side_ ). Erwin checks his right wing again- the only titans are all normal, going down with ease, no flares anywhere in sight, and Erwin uses this as an excuse to veer towards the black, just as he spots the abnormal off in the distance. And the soldiers, they’re trying, only it’s too fast, it’s too close, Erwin’s heart is in his throat because no, he’s not seeing what he thinks he is, it’s not--

It’s three seconds, at most. Three seconds for Erwin’s world to fracture in tandem with Armin’s bones. Three damned seconds, only the last of which holds Erwin’s sudden, pained cry as his mind catches up to his sight and he realizes that this time, it’s not a nightmare. _I’m awake, this time_. That’s when everything shatters. The careful façade of Commander, the calm, collected persona he never hasn’t been- Erwin’s heard stories, of course. Stories of soldiers who witnessed the death of their fellows, who joined them simply because the grief was too great to keep an eye open for the enemy (he’d thought, at the time, that perhaps the human psyche was the true enemy here; that these soldiers, less in control of their own emotions than he, had let their grief run wild with them and wantonly ignored the world, ignored the enemy, and that _that_ had brought about their demise) (oh how utterly, mind-numbingly _wrong_ he’d been). He’s heard the stories.

Never has he thought he would find himself in one.

He’s aware, just vaguely, of his horse continuing its forward gallop, hooves pounding into the worn terrain. He’s similarly aware that the abnormal has been taken down, that the formation is moving forward, resuming their places and their flares and their herding, almost, of the remaining titans, back, back to the vast expanse of water against which they’ve been cornered- Erwin’s aware of all of this. But his eyes are held captive by the miniscule spot of dark wetness against the immensity of the steppes they ride on, the reddish hue left on the grass the only indication that Armin had ever existed.

Erwin understands, now- too late, perhaps- how crippling grief can be.

A black horse cuts near his white one, and it’s more out of instinct than comprehension that Erwin pulls the reins (he feels numb). It’s Levi, his mouth moving in patterns Erwin can’t decipher, doesn’t try to (it’s a painful numbness, the kind where you feel nothing and all too much, all at once). There’s a hand on his shoulder now, and Erwin blinks, startled (the hand is warm, and the warmth pierces through the numbness long enough for Erwin’s eyes to focus, long enough for him to understand what Levi’s saying).

"Erwin fucking Smith you fucking listen to me. You have a fucking army to command, you can't fucking lose it over one fucking person!"

And Levi's right, but he's also wrong. He's right, because Erwin fucking Smith still has a fucking army to command, and as Commander, he's not allowed to lose it.

Levi's wrong because it's not just one fucking person, Armin was never just one fucking person, Armin was every-

Erwin slides his mask into place, smoothing it over, easing the cracks where anguish tries to ooze out. He's the Commander, now, it's really that simple (and to a Commander no one person is worth jeopardizing the mission) (but if Armin = person and Armin = everything, shouldn't person > mission?) (the math doesn't work right, but Erwin decides it must simply have broken when he did and that's why he didn't notice). He pulls himself forcibly together, hoping that the threads connecting his shattered pieces are thick enough to hold, at least for a little while longer.

They are almost done, after all.

The rest goes flawlessly (of course the rest would; of course the world would rob Erwin of his vindication, of the ability to see _something_ break and fall into ruin) ( _something,_ he thinks bitterly, _noun. Anything but myself, that can feel pain and_ should, _because Armin is gone_ ) (it hurts). Abnormals are absent, culled in the first stretch of their advance, when the other titans had gathered in clumps and begun to run, their will bending to Eren’s as his voice rang out over the final plains separating the soldiers from their victory (the same voice keeps them pinned, only the occasional one hard-headed enough to resist the lulling call, leading them so reassuringly to their deaths).

Afterwards, it’s almost unbearable. They’ve done it, they’ve won, but the victory is a hollow, empty spectre of a joke; a faint, grotesque imitation of happiness that only further expands the revulsion that has built up steadily in Erwin’s stomach. The feeling lingers, past meals and showers and until Erwin makes his way back to the base they’d left from, the room he’d considered theirs now far too large (he has to stop and make a conscious effort to control his breathing, lest he begin to hyperventilate and lose whatever modicum of control he still has within his grasp) (he loses it anyway the second he sees the chessboard).

It’s still perched on the nightstand, glossy wood sleek but worn. Erwin strides over, hovers his fingers gently above it. His fist clenches, and Erwin bites back tears, his stomach revolting even further (he finds his way to a latrine, then, and retches) (the feeling doesn’t go away).

 

* * *

 

 

His stomach is still clenched, five months later, as Commander Erwin Smith (the title is merely honorary, now; with the defeat of the titans, there’s no need for an army, and Erwin’s job consists mainly of paperwork he would have called mind-numbing, only he knows that it’s not because of the paperwork that he lives in a fog so like the one he strolls through) makes his way to the Old Cemetery in downtown Shinganshina. It’s called the Old Cemetery because no one knows its name, lost as it was during the titan’s first attack on Wall Maria- now its grounds house mainly the similarly nameless and disembodied.

He crouches down in front of the stone he’d paid for himself (there’d been no body to speak of, but Erwin had been able to insist on at least the stone), drizzle flecking his dark coat. He runs his fingers over the simple lettering etched into the grey slate, feeling their curves and dents under his fingers (years ago, he’d done the same with a chessboard; only… then, he’d known Armin was coming _back_ ). Minutes pass in silence, the damp weather muting any sound that would find its way into the graveyard. Erwin thinks it nice that way- just him and the graveyard. A moment of peace, of privacy.

He reaches into his breast pocket, pulling out the only offering he could think of as worthy. He runs his finger over the worn white wood, flips the piece around a few times in his hand.

“You know,” he says, quietly, the silence parting around his words. “I showed you this, once before. When you offered up your heart to me for the first time, I showed you the white king. I think you understood, then. The king is the heart of the game- of our game. Of me.” Erwin pauses, collecting himself ( _talking to stones_ , he thinks. _Fool_ ). “I can’t salute anymore, but, Armin, I offer up my heart to you.” Erwin places the white king down at the foot of the stone. The black king is already there, brought by Erwin on a previous visit- he fancies the two greet each other (like, friends, definitely; like lovers, maybe). Then he stands, the drizzle thickening to a soft rain, and Erwin simply looks at the gravestone, contemplating the events that transpired on that last, fateful offensive.

Humanity had won.

Erwin had lost (lost the only person he had ever cared for so much; lost his true equal, lost both friend and lover).

The usual litany of thoughts follow- his gut insists it was his fault, that if the plan had gone better or been better designed then Armin would be alive (he knows Armin would find this ridiculous- the number of times he’d told Erwin off after a mission had gone badly and too many soldiers had died- but he can’t help himself). And the aching, burning longing. Just one more conversation. One more fleeting look. Just- _anything_ , to not have Armin gone. Erwin drags his eyes from the gravestone, turning up to face the sky (the rain, at least, is kind enough to wash away his tears).

He’ll bear Armin’s death with him for as long as he lives, this he knows already- the blood on his hand weighs heavier than normal at the thought (Armin was everything, and everything is a heavy weight). But he won’t let Armin- or any of them, any of the thousands of men and women and children who’d given their lives for the cause- he won’t let _any_ of their deaths have been in vain. He’s made up his mind; this was farewell. He will keep moving forward, keep building a future for humanity (he’s offered up his heart to Armin, but his mind belongs to the rest of them). He walks away, not looking back, a determined set to his stride and a faint smile on his face for the first time in months.

For humanity.

**Author's Note:**

> please don't kill me


End file.
